The Frozen Ones
by Silver Medals
Summary: Sometimes, in the Choosing Ceremony, your aptitude is not a factor. Sometimes, it is not integrity or loyalty. For Emmeline, it is what betrayal uncovers.


The metal chair is cold against my bare arms. The tall woman places the wires on my forehead without glancing at my eyes. She hands me a glass of a green liquid, which I drink. It tastes minty, like the tonic I take once a week. She takes a sheet of paper.

"Is your name... Caroline Emerson?" she asks with a slight accent; she rolls her R's.

"No," I reply. "Emmeline Thomas." Caroline Emerson is a bright, naive Amity in my mathematics class. I would never expect her to transfer factions. The test administrator jots down a name on the paper. I glance at it. It reads my name in bold, clear lettering.

She smiles warmly and waves as the simulation begins to take effect.

* * *

I stand in a cold, white room. Two tables, both metal, stand in the center of the floor. On one, rests a small flag with the five faction seals marked on it. On the other, a handgun.

"Which one do I choose?" My voice echoes across the near-barren room.

"Choose." The administrator's voice comes with the same echo.

I slowly step forward and lay my hand over the faction flag. I look at the handgun. The thought occurs to me quickly: I could choose both. Before I can rest my hand on the gun as well, the world seems to tilt. I whirl around and find myself faced with a man. He holds a gun in his hand. Before I can react, he presses it against my temple. It forms a cold circle on the side of my head.

"Are the Candor planning an attack on Amity?" the man asks. The words form in my mouth. I do not know which one to allow to tumble out. Either one will almost certainly get me killed. "Answer!" he orders in a strong voice.

"Yes," I say calmly. It is the truth. A cold truth, but Candor is almost certainly going to attack the faction in the next year.

"Tell the truth," the man replies, his voice like steel. His eyes bore into me and he presses the gun harder. The circle of the gun barrel burns against my temple. I gulp down my fear.

"I did tell the truth."

"I said, tell the truth."

My throat quivers as I repeat the answer. "Yes, they are planning an attack."

"Liar." The finger on his trigger twitches. I glance around the room. Before his finger presses down on the black, metal trigger, I swing my leg backwards, hitting the man with a swift kick to the groin. A low growling sound emits from the man's throat and the gun clatters on the floor. I grab the gun and lift it. It's rather heavy, but I hold it up, aiming it shakily towards his head. I back away slowly, ready to attack, when it occurs to me that I have no idea how to actually shoot it. As I take the final step that I can (considering the wall), my finger finds the trigger. I slam it down on the little stick and the sound of a gunshot pierces the air. The man lets out a yelp and clasps his left arm, which has a steady stream of thick blood coming down from it.

The feeling is that of _control. _In Candor, we told the truth, spoke our minds. We never did something that wasn't under the influence of truthfulness. I take a step towards the man and press the gun against his temple. He whimpers, but it stops abruptly as I fire the gun once more, into his head. What I feel is like no other. I killed someone. Surely this is not an act of peacfulness, or of selflessness, but an act of bravery and strategy. My head aches but the feeling of control lingers.

* * *

The warm gun is not resting in my palm when I come to. Instead it is the cold arm of the chair.

"Well done, Miss Thomas. Your result is Erudite. Good luck tomorrow," the administrator says in a cold voice, her eyes trained straight ahead.

This can't be. I am meant to be a Candor. I did not lie. Was it a lie? Did my fellow faction lie to me? Candor? They are going to war with Amity; that is the word that Candor has been spreading for months. "You are dismissed."

I stand up from the metal chair and leave the room. An ache rises in my stomach. I am not meant to be Candor. But I am not meant to be Abnegation, surely, I am what I had believed. I run down the stairs, skipping every second step. I run out into the empty, cold street. I run all the way home, my feet pounding the sidewalks. My black-and-white clothes are not the only thing I will give up tomorrow.


End file.
